And when I walked the forest pathways
I breathed easier
Surrounded by those ancient trees
Gigantic ferns filling the space between
Wisdom, a powerful majesty
Offering protection, offering healing
When I walked the forest pathways
My whole being was filled
With light, and hope
and a certainty that you were safe
I wept and my heart
filled with gratitude
Both for the forest
and for having walked a path
28 years with you.
RIP Cole/C/Cass/Cassandra
169 days feeling like 169 lifetimes of missing you
10,394 days, far too short a time to love you
10,222 more days ahead
to regret that I could not save you
My sweet child
Your French Horn, your music, your poetry
your voice messages, photographs, your books
Lay scattered at my feet
As pieces of a puzzle
that stubbornly refuse to fit
I have recalled your love of rowing and music
but it was your love of calculus
that has stopped me dead
Calculus
That beautiful, perfect mathematical study
of continuous change
I could use a little calculus just now
suspended in this moment
where the world has stopped spinning
where grief is the only constant
Unchanged in 169 lifetimes
If the universe is willing
If the universal powers see fit
Then God send me a mathematician
and a Jedi Knight puzzle master
to fix the fragmented pieces
and to offer up an alternative
to this unrelenting constant called grief
RIP Cole/C/Cass/Cassandra
I will not sleep tonight
Instead I keep a vigil
Waiting for him to come home
Waiting to tear up the missing persons report
My son has gone missing
Vanished
Taking only his wetsuit, backpack
No phone, no ID, no food, no cash
I filed the police report
Then folded his laundry
Watched 'Community' without him
I waited for him to come home
And so I wait still
My heart is here
It lays in pieces in all those places where he should be
Come home
We can fold the laundry together
We will laugh at Troy & Abed
We can promise to never go missing
We will put the pieces back together
Come home
I miss you
I love you
Tonight I keep a mother's vigil
Light a candle for us
Send him home if you see him
And tell him you love him too.
Mental illness is a thief
She stole his music, his intellect, his kindness
Carelessly discarded his dreams on the Bothell Highway
The shreds tossed in back of a police car
Shackled legs, shackled wrists, shredded identity
Mental illness is a thief,
and all the kings horses and all the kings men
Can’t put my child together again
Mental illness is a thief, a vile criminal
Yet my son and I serve the time
Consecutive death sentences
With no chance of parole
Dying slowly
Empty, devoid of fear or any feeling
Although sadness sometimes sneaks in through the locked door
I am leaving, going away from the world
Walking alone, carrying nothing, leaving nothing behind
It is lonely and cold, and dark
The path disappears behind and there is no path ahead
Emptiness explodes in my chest
Can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t scream
Bereavement fills in the spaces that love left behind
and silence surrounds the places he once occupied
My child is lost
my child is gone
and yet his form, his shell, stares at me
across the middle distance
The lights on the going up stairs are confused
they’re off at the bottom
they’re off at the top
which way is up
which way is down is anyone’s guess
The chaos descended, I believe,
on Saturday morning
although it seems
the chaos wasn’t noticed until Saturday evening.
I’m sure it was Saturday.
Because Friday
there was light and laughter
all was right with the stairs, the lights,
And I knew, was confident I knew,
which way was up
which way was down
Funny, but since Saturday
and the light failure and the library silence
there have been other anomalies
The music stopped playing
The coffee has refused to percolate
and no one has been holding hands
It’s limbo land
a state of suspension
like waiting for Godot
and waiting for Beckett to explain Godot
Or sifting through a dream
where it’s Friday in Jackson Town
People dance on pepper sprout pony kegs
But Godot hasn’t shown
and it’s not Jackson Town
and the lights can’t remember
which way is up
which way is down
Since Saturday
since you left
So lovely to know
you’ll be home tomorrow
restoring calm to chaos
The porch light will be on
my coffee cup will be ready
music will play
and we’ll dance with Godot
on pepper sprout pony kegs
If you thought it was your last day
Your very last
You might wear a pretty red dress
You might even curl your hair
Although you might skip the mascara
You want to leave in good form
Mascara runs & you can’t be sure
Anyone can fix a sad face
Even Jack Dempsey had to get out of the ring
He told me so, I was 10, it was New York
So here I am all these years later, taking the gloves off
Sitting in the corner
Sucking hard on ice
Trying to breathe
Bruised knuckles, battered heart
A nimble warrior
Not sure she can stand to fight another day
I love your exclamation points!
They are you, passionate, playful!
You are not a question mark!
There can be no question of your considerable charm!
You excite me, period!
So please hurry home and exclamation me! Continue reading
Beautiful
Okay. I’m not really allowed to say what I’m about to say. In public, we people who are mentally ill are supposed to hang our heads and only speak of our challenges as things we want “fixed” for fear of folks accusing us of “glamorizing” our condition. We’re supposed to declare that our way of being is dangerous and wrong and everyone else’s way is better and we are supposed to want to join the troops and fall into line. And so those who love us are confused and angry when we are resistant to getting help, to taking our meds, to being “cured.” Every other sufferer of a disease wants to get better, why don’t you?
I’ll tell you why.
Because sometimes we understand that our inability to accept and live resignedly in the world we’ve been born into is chemical and personal and that we need help integrating…
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